My Father, the Cheese Pusher

I forgot all about this during my recent woes with my children's doctor's office...

This morning, my father and I were tiredly shuffling around the kitchen, getting our breakfasts ready. I was all bleary eyes and scratchy throated. All I wanted was some tea and food and maybe a cyanide pill or two. My father was seated with his coffee, cheese and bread.

Now, anyone who knows me knows I love cheese. I could probably eat it all day and watch my ass balloon to thrice its size, but I restrain myself a bit. I don't like the stinky, moldy, snobby cheeses. I'm not into processed cheese-food type cheeses either. I just like normal cheese ( i.e., cheddar, edam, gouda, swiss, brie, camembert, parmesan, etc).

I'm not the only cheese-freak in my family either. The only cheese hater in the family is my mom. She can only eat the stuff if it's melted on something. She's a freak.

I should also mention that my father has this tendency to buy things in bulk. The man lives in Costco. He also shops the fresh fruit markets almost constantly. The only problem with this is that half of the time, he refuses to wear his glasses-- vanity-- and brings home half-dead fruits and vegetables. Not just one or two either. Bags of the stuff. We currently have about 3 pounds of spotty bananas. I refuse to look at them much less eat them. Why am I bringing this up? He bought too much cheese. We have a crapload of cheese in our fridge.

My father: "This cheese is good. Try some."

Me: "No, thanks. I've got my brie."

My father: "Here. Just try a piece."

Me: "I'm sure it's very good. Maybe some other time."

My father: After slicing off a chunk, stabs it with the knife and waves it at me. "Eat! It's good!"

Me: "I don't want your cheese! I want my cheese! You can't make me eat the cheese!"

My father: Yelling after me as I run away, "You didn't try the cheese!"

Yeah, sure the first chunk is free. Then what? Next thing you know, I'll be just a shadow of my former self. I'll haunt the cheese shops. I'll maybe get a job in one just to be near a good hunk of parmesano reggiano. After they fire me for carressing the gouda; I'll be found in the alley, living in a cardboard box that I decorated with bits of red wax, drawing pictures of great big wheels of cheddar. Is this the kind of life he wants for his only child?